Nobody Knows The Trouble I've Seen
by deceitfulwords
Summary: They say you can let your past define or strengthen you. For a brainwashed ex-assassin hoping to turn his life around, the past seems to loom too heavily over his present. For a former mutant experiment turned thief, the past seems like a wound that may never heal. Together they will learn that sometimes shadows are caused by standing in our own sunlight.
1. Prologue

**December 16th, 1991.**

There was no fear in the darkness. No pain. No feelings. No thoughts.

Just a never ending darkness that stretched throughout his consciousness until it numbed ever single nerve in his body. Nothing could touch him there. Nothing could harm him and, while he couldn't remember why, that thought always filled him with relief when they left him in his glass coffin.

He was safe in the darkness. Safe from what exactly, he could never remember.

The cylinder structure they contained him in, when they had no further use for him, was his only true escape. The coldness allowed him to drift alone in the void in peace. But there was always a prickle of awareness, right as the glass tube lowered, that he shouldn't like this. People weren't meant to live in moments of consciousness and then lapses of complete darkness. They were supposed to actively avoid nothingness, not chase after it like a beaten dog.

So why was this emptiness better than living? The question always nagged at him until the cold stole his consciousness away from the living. What was so bad about being awake that he would seek out the nothingness the machine provided?

He could never recall what it was he needed to remember. It terrified him. It was always the last thing on his mind as the locks on the machine clicked into place.

He couldn't remember.

 _Anything._

It was as if his memory was a giant mirror that had been smashed into pieces. There were flickers of images in his mind, but they didn't make sense. They were too small and fleeting to hold onto. If he tried to put the memories together, tried to make a picture with the tiny pieces, it seemed like none of them fit together. He couldn't make sense out of them.

There was a short, sick man, but then he was tall and healthy. There was a small, brunette girl with a toothy grin, but then there was a tank and an explosion. There was a gun in his hand, but when he looked down at it, there was only a newspaper. A dark haired man had stood next to a floating car, but then he was giving him a blue jacket. A series of numbers, so clear in his mind that his lips moved to speak them before they fizzled away and were replaced by a giant tree, with letters carved into its thick bark.

It was a kaleidoscope of moving pictures, none of them in any order that made sense. But it didn't stop him from trying to sort the pieces, though it had proven to be impossible over the years. Even basic things, like his name, were lost in the fractured parts of his brain. He knew he had lost too much, so he clung to the things he did know. The three things he knew with absolute certainty.

One, he hadn't always been here.

At one time he had thought he had always been locked away in his glass cell. He couldn't remember much of anything, so how could there have been more? But as time passed, that thought had been proven wrong. Time itself was moving much faster than he could understand. Technology was shifting and his handlers had to get him up to speed with each new mission.

There had been one mission that had awakened him from the lies of his existence. He had been given the name of a mission and sent into a city. A city where buildings reached toward the sky by the hundreds and the people were constantly in motion. He had completed his task, had killed his mission, when something caught his eye. Whatever it was had been lost with time, but he remembered the feelings that had been awakened within him that day.

The day he had fled from his handlers.

Sadness. Guilt. Hope. Homesick.

It was a toxic cocktail of emotions that had left him scrambling. He had tossed anything that could be used to find him and had raced further into the city. He spent days wandering before he ended up in a rundown warehouse; hoping something would trigger the memories that were scratching at the back of his head, just out of reach. But they hadn't come. So he had slept in the abandoned warehouse, listening to the ramblings of a blind, crazy, old man whose voice soothed him.

He had gone with his handlers without protest when they had finally come for him. His brain had been too scrambled to fight back. He didn't know where he was or who he was, but he knew there was something more. After that day, even as the machine they used to wipe him worked its magic, a part of him always knew. It was his secret, the only tangible thing that was his in this place.

 _He hadn't always been here.  
_  
The second thing he knew was that he was really good at completing missions. He was well trained, even beyond what they asked of him at times. But he couldn't remember the last time he was trained by anyone. They always had him training others. He could remember blurry faces of kids, teenagers, and burly men that he was responsible to train.

So who had trained him and why? Because if he hadn't always been here, then he had been somewhere else.

He had been trained somewhere and by people who had needed him to be among the best. His handlers wouldn't want him here, wouldn't allow him to train others, and wouldn't fix his arm when it malfunctioned, if he wasn't worth it. He even attacked them sometimes. In hazy moments where nothing was right and everything felt too close to the surface, he'd lash out at his handlers, sometimes killing them.

If he wasn't worth the effort, they wouldn't keep him around after those instances. They would keep him locked in the darkness or they would kill him. He could be a threat and threats needed to be dealt with. He was called to deal with threats they couldn't, yet _he_ was a threat they couldn't handle. The moment he decided he wanted to leave, the moment he had someplace to go, he could and they could do nothing to stop him.

But he had nowhere to go. That was the last thing he knew. There was nothing for him in the world that changed too quickly. He had no one. He had been alone ever since he could remember. Even if there had been people waiting for him at one time, they would have moved on as the time swiftly changed.

The images in his mind, of the people - the little girl with the toothy smile, a tall man with wrinkles around his eyes, a beautiful woman who smiled down at him kindly, the small but then big man - they had to have been real once. He hoped they had been real, but he couldn't be sure. He had seen families on his missions, had killed families and lovers alike. He couldn't be sure that he hadn't imagined them to make up for the guilt he sometimes felt after a mission.

Like the guilt he was feeling tonight.

There were fresh memories mixing in with the older. New memories not as shattered as the others. They wouldn't be broken a part until they placed him in the other machine once more. Until then, he found himself concentrating on them, trying to understand why these memories seemed to matter. Why this mission mattered.

There had been a car on a darkened road. The car contained his mission.

There were medical bags filled with blue liquid. The package he was required to bring back.

There had been an older man, slender with white hair, bleeding from his nose. A man who had become his problem.

But there had been recognition in the man's dark eyes as he stared up at his death. He had seen that look on so many faces; realization, fear, regret. It was the look his missions got when they realized death had finally come for them. But this man had spoken to him. Not to plead or beg, as so many of the others had before him. This man had asked him a question. No, he had said a name.

The look of acknowledgment in his eyes wasn't about facing death. He thought he knew him. He had been calling him a name. What had he called him? Why couldn't he remember the name? And, more importantly, why was guilt and remorse boiling in his stomach?

He had successfully completed his mission. The package had been retrieved and the scene cleaned up to look like an accident. So why was his mind screaming at him to remember? There was nothing to remember! The other machine always made sure the pieces got scattered before he could see the whole picture. What was the point in trying to put a moving puzzle back together when it would be forced to shift once more?

His arm was whirling in irritation as he couldn't let it go. What had the man called him? It hadn't meant anything at the time. There had been no reaction within him as the bloodied man's lips had moved and spoken that name. But now his mind was racing with possibilities. Had the man mistaken him for someone else? The breathless sound of disbelief on the man's tongue, as if he was staring at a ghost, had to mean something. Had he lost someone who looked like him?

But then his mind flashed to a more torturous thought.

Did the man actually know him? Was he the one who had been lost? He felt lost at times, like everything was spinning on the wrong axis. His actions seemed correct but the meaning behind them was wrong; corrupted. He hadn't always been here, so he had to have been somebody else once, right? He hadn't always been just the asset.

The Winter Soldier.

 _Death._

Could he have known the older man in his life before this place? It had to be possible. But then his breathing came in swallow gasps. If he had known the man then he had just killed a memory; permanently. Fear laced through him and he tried desperately to remember. The man was older than him so a parent? Grandparent? Uncle?

No, that couldn't be right, because the man hadn't called him a first name. Families called each other by their first names or nicknames and there had been a title in his words, too. Not just a name. Could the man have been the one that turned him into a weapon? Maybe the man had put a gun in his hand and taught him to shoot to kill. Was that why he had the blue liquid? Was he off to make more weapons like him? Bring more death to the world?

The hissing sound of his glass cage alerted him that time was slipping away. Darkness was fast approaching and he was no closer to the answers he sought than he was from stopping the cold that was seeping into his bones. He shut his eyes and willed the image of the man to stay with him. He tried to hear the words that he knew were somehow important. The temperature in his glass prison began to drop quickly and his body jerked in protest as he replayed the scene in his mind.

The man had been coughing up blood, scrambling to sit up after the wreck. He was muttering about his wife, wanting him to go to her first.

 _Worried._ The man was worried about his wife. He wanted him to check on her, without knowing that he would. And then he would kill her, because she was his new problem. He hadn't been told about her when he had been briefed on the mission, but he would handle his new problem after he solved his first.

He had walked toward the man and grabbed him. Dark eyes widened in recognition as they scanned his face. Those eyes had then locked onto his and the breathless words, the name, had echoed into the night. What had he said?

 _Sergeant._

His eyes shot open. The title, Sergeant, that's what he had said. Hope burst through him, warming him, but it wasn't enough to fight against the cold. Had he been a Sergeant? The English word felt familiar. It sat heavy on his tongue.

His lips parted to speak the word in the privacy of his cell, but it was too cold. His teeth only chattered, unable to form the word in the biting cold. He was running out of time. Still he fought against the coldness, tried desperately to keep the darkness at bay just a little longer. If he could just remember the name he was sure that some of the broken pieces could fit.

But the coldness was seeping into his very soul. And why was he struggling so much? Even if he did remember, they would just take it from him the next time they came for him. The other machine never left anything in tact within his mind for too long. But they hadn't wiped him when he returned and that was new. Maybe they wanted him to remember. Maybe he hadn't kept his secrets as hidden as he thought, or maybe they liked to watch him struggle in vain.

 _Sergeant._

 _Sergeant._

Had he been a Sergeant? Or did he look like someone who once was? Sergeant meant military, right? Had he been in the military? Was that who trained him and, if so, who's military?

Maybe he was reading too much into this. What if there had just been a passing resemblance to someone the man had known? His body locked down as the cold wrapped around him; trapping him like a coiled snake. _Sergeant._ He needed to remember that word. If he repeated it, made it his mantra, maybe he'd remember it when he woke.

He felt a buzzing in his head and knew he was close to losing consciousness. His mind was trying to help connect the dots, but his eyes fluttered shut. The hairs of his eyelashes fused together almost instantly in the cold. _Sergeant_. Maybe he was mistaking an old man's confusion for more, because he needed to think there could be more than this cage he was trapped in. That there could be more than just the endless void in between his missions.

 _Sergeant Bar-_

And then it all went black.

* * *

 **May 11th, 1997.**

The metal door screeched as it opened. Two men stood outside the door in their gray uniforms, staring at the little girl from the entrance.

"Let's go 638," one of the men barked.

But she didn't move. She hadn't moved since they had dumped her on her hard cot the night before. The door of her cell had slammed shut casting her into the darkness of her barren room. She hadn't even flinched at the sound. Her entire body felt too weak to even roll over.

Yesterday she had been taken into the death room. It had been the name she had mentally given the room when she had watched 798, or Julia as she preferred to be called, gunned down inside of it. The blonde haired woman had been the closest thing she had ever had to a friend or parental figure. Julia had looked after her, taught her things; like the names of food and colors.

Neverland wasn't known for having a lot of color, or anything else other than death and brutality.

But for the short year she had with Julia, the woman had made the dull metal walls and floors come alive with talk of an outside world filled with color. An outside world where there was a giant ball in the sky called the sun that could warm you. A world where you could run around in something called grass that was the same green as 497's eyes. Under a blue sky the same color as her own eyes, Julia had once told her.

An outside world that Julia had decided was worth dying over for a chance to experience it again. The same fatal mistake so many others had made before and after. But 638 knew of no other world beside Neverland. The outside was just a story, a land of impossibilities that she could never hope to see. There was a freedom in not knowing, in not having experienced the outside world. The others panicked and fought, risked their lives for chance to see their world once more.

But Neverland was 638's world. The only place she had ever known, so she did not long for the world of dreams and hopes. She would listen to tells of others, watched their eyes lose focus as they spoke softly, glistening with the tears of all they had lost. But 638 had never lost anything by being here. Not until she lost Julia.

The cold, metal collars that were attached around all of the prisoners in Neverland, had kept Julia powerless the day she decided to run. Once attached, they could not be removed, no matter how many times some tried. They were all prisoners to be used in whatever new ways the scientists and guards dreamed up. They were left half starving, pumped full of new drugs, all in the name of a _cure_. The lack of food and experiments may take away their strength, but it was the collars that took away the real threat they could pose.

The scientists called them mutants, but they were nothing more than abominations according to the guards. The collars left their curses dormant as they wandered through the hopeless, twisting halls of the compound; moved from one tortuous device to the next. In between, they were subjected to the guards' sick games. Many of them involved turning mutant against mutant for just an extra bite of food or a cup of water. Those that tried to protest were subjected to horrific beatings as their collars beeped, suppressing the very powers that tried to come to their defense.

638 always wondered if her collar was broken. Since they had forced her power to manifest, a series of tortuous endurance tests that were designed to cause her body's stress response to mutate her cells, she had been collared. The director of the compound, a nightmarish man of cruelty and hatred, called Dr. Colcord, had declared her useless. There was little need for someone who could sense others' emotions and she had been quickly thrown into cell block 10.

The block reserved for unwanted mutants, who were being used to find the cure to stop the eradication of the human race. Others with more useful powers were being trained to hunt down other mutants and protect the compound. If they refused, they were shackled and collared, before being lead in front of a firing squad. On execution days, cell block 10 was lined up and forced to watch. Screams of horror and disbelief would echo around the room from the new faces. The rest just watched silently; understanding that they too would face death soon enough.

But even with her collar, 638 could still feel the emotions around her. The despair and depression traveled down the halls. The rage and contempt lurked in the darkened corners. The sorrow and grief poured out of the vents into her room. The desire for death was in the very air that filled her lungs with each breath. The emotions circled around her, coating her in a cold that was far worse than the freezing air they pumped into her tiny cell just for fun.

It was because of this defect that she knew Julia was going to do something on that fateful day. The overwhelming burn of confidence that typically laced the guards was pulsing off her as she had been brought into the cafeteria. 638 had tried to stop her, had begged her to just sit with her, stay with her. But something within Julia had snapped. Whatever medication they had given Julia that day had caused mental damage. 638 could feel it.

When Julia had taken off, she had followed behind her. Afraid of being alone again. Afraid of losing the only person she had. Afraid for what they would do to Julia.

She could feel the guards heading their way before they reached them. They opened fire the moment they turned the corner. 638 had flung herself into an archway and watched as the bullets pierced straight through Julia's pale skin. Blood spatter coated the walls and the floor as the shots rang out. Julia's blonde hair was left to soak in the darkened pools, dying it an eerie crimson. Her dark eyes, completely lifeless, stared into 638's. Wet, sticky blood, from the woman who had taught her everything she knew, had coated her face and hands.

The feel of it had made her scream.

It had been one thing to watch the only light she had extinguished at the hands of the guards. It had been devastating to feel the life force leaving Julia completely. It had felt like her soul was being ripped from her body and 638 experienced every flick of it with her. Pain and horror. Realization and sorrow. Regret and longing, until there was just nothing.

Nothing but a faded memory of a beautiful, blonde haired woman, who had taught her about a fantasy world outside of Neverland. Nothing but the tattered, grey gown she was still forced to wear, stained with the crimson color of Julia's dried blood. Just another daily reminder that the only escape from Neverland would be her death.

That day had forever scarred her. No sound had left her lips since she had been forced to stop screaming over Julia's dead body. The guards had made sure she had been silenced. She was beaten then dropped into the ice machine, where she spent hours in the freezing dark. Now she was just a shell. A ghost of a figure who was paraded up and down the halls for whatever experiment they had dreamed up next. Her eyes were open but never really seeing. She breathed, but she was no longer alive.

"Just get her, we don't have time for this," the other man huffed. Agitation rolled over her, but she couldn't move. "I am hungry."

The first man entered her cell, taking three steps before reaching her cot. His shadow leered over her and she let him grab her without protest. With ease he was able to lift her by her arm, dragging her off the bed and toward the entrance where the other man latched a hand on her other arm. Together they painfully dragged her down the twisting metal hallways until arriving at a new door.

A room without a name. A room she had never been in before.

Without a word they forced the door open and moved her toward a gurney. Men and women in lab coats buzzed around the room, paying little attention to the commotion of their arrival. Excitement vibrated in the room and her empty stomach clenched in fear. These emotions only ever meant pain. Quickly, they placed her onto the gurney and strapped her down much tighter than needed. There was nowhere for her to run, even if she wanted to escape.

"Ah, 638. Excellent. Now could you please get 889 for us?" An aging, dark skinned man asked with a quick glance toward the guards.

They huffed in annoyance but left to complete their task with a word. 638 stared up at the shiny ceiling, trying desperately to block out the humming of pleasure coming from the adults in the room. A woman came over to her, sticking various electrodes to her without care for her comfort. A finger brushed against her skin and she shivered as the woman's emotions intensely pooled within her. The sadistic pleasure that bubbled under her skin caused her throat to constrict and she let out a tiny gasp of air.

When she was finished, the woman moved away and the emotions dulled, leaving her to breathe once more.

A few minutes went by before 889's emotions tickled in the back of her mind. Her screaming protest echoed down the hall a few seconds later. 638 turned her head and watched as the bald headed girl, who wasn't even 10 years older than her, scratched and clawed at the guards as they forced her into the room. Her emotions sunk deeper into 638, filling her with a spark of defiance and a volcano of outrage.

638 felt a ghost of a smile wash over her as she took in the scene. 889 was made of fire; literally. Her mutation had given her control over fire, but had been deemed unworthy to train due to her attitude. Yet, the flames that burned through her veins were nothing compared to the inferno that lit her very soul. 889 would set the whole world aflame if given the chance. But the collar that wrapped tightly around her neck doused her blaze, rendering her just as useless as the rest of them.

She had been spared death thanks to the uniqueness of her gift and their desire to cure it. 889, however, would never go quietly. She tried to bite the guards as they forced her onto the gurney. She kicked and shook violently, trying to injury anyone within reach. There would be no quiet defeat from 889. Not like 638 who submitted willingly.

She wished she could be more like 889. Wished that she would scream and rebel with her last breath, but the image of Julia's dead body took the fight from her. There was no point in fighting back. There was no escape. Death would be the only chance they had to leave this place. 638 had learned that lesson. 889 seemed determined to learn it at the expense of her life.

They made quick work of 889, even as she yelled and spit at them. Within minutes, through all the yelling and biting, she was strapped in. Just as helpless as 638, but with a busted lip for her effort. There was no use in fighting the inevitable, in giving them more reason to hurt you. They would gladly take it and enjoy each second. Machines were hooked to each of them, the sounds beeping echoed around the room. Each girl was given a mouth guard and then the room began to empty out until just the sounds of their breathing and the beeping of the machines could be heard.

638 frowned. _This was new._ They had never been left in a room alone before. Suddenly a whirling noise caught her attention and she turned her head to see a giant machine coming to life. It shook as the whirling sound turned to a full roar. It grew until it blocked out all other sounds. A blinding white light appeared in its center, building in its intensity. The room itself seemed to brighten until 638 shut her eyes against the concentration of the light.

She could feel 889's rage turn to fear beside her. Her own heart rate had sky rocketed. The coldness, that was her existence, disappeared as the room turned warm.

Then hot.

Then boiling.

She bit down hard on the mouth guard as her skin bubbled under the harsh light of the machine. Her body began to thrash under the pressure and she cried out around the mouth guard. Next to her 889 gave a blood curling scream.

The light continued to strengthen, until she could no longer think under the pain. Nothing existed outside of the pain and the burning of her very soul. Her screams were hoarse from her extended silence. The searing heat tore through her skin while she convulsed on the table. Her heart pounded with the effort to keep her alive and felt as if it could burst out of her chest. She couldn't even feel 889 next to her anymore. There was nothing left but the scorching light that turned her entire body to ash from the inside.

The pain and burning increased until it hit its peak and her eyes flew wide open.

With a gut piercing scream, it threw her over the edge and into complete darkness.

 **Author Note: I posted a thing after _years_ of not posting anything! So a few things to know about this story. 1. Civil War never happened. 2. I will be drawing on the comics, as well as the movies, to create my own spin and tale. 3. I own nothing but my dog and I will fight anyone over her, so don't try me Marvel! 5. ****This entire story is dedicated to my twinsie, Tanja. Without whom this story would not have been made possible. 6. All spelling and grammar mistakes are the result of a lack of coffee. Please have mercy. 7. Feedback is always welcomed and I hope you enjoy!**


	2. Chapter 1

**_Brooklyn, NY. December 1929._**

 _Readjusting the heavy bag on his shoulder, Bucky sighed in irritation. The cold December air was causing him to shiver as he waited outside of the library. He had left the warmth of the YMCA's boxing gym early to make sure he was on time to pick up Rebecca. There was no way he was going to have his little sister waiting for him outside in the cold. Coach Elliot had not been happy when he had told him that he needed to leave early, but he had eventually agreed to let him go._

 _After all, Bucky was the YMCA's reining youth welterweight boxing champion. No one could question his commitment to boxing, but he had other priorities too, like taking care of his little sister. He was twelve now and his parents had decided that he was old enough, responsible enough, to take his sister to her piano lessons. It was a task he took seriously. He would not disappoint his parents, even if he had to hear Coach Elliot's complaints and run extra laps._

 _Ten minutes later and Miss Elizabeth appeared at the door with his sister in tow. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Immediately, Bucky moved into the warmth of the hall and shifted his bag full of his boxing equipment as he fought the urge to shiver._

" _We ran a bit late. I hope you weren't waiting too long, James," Miss Elizabeth apologized as she took in his demeanor._

" _No, ma'am. I just got here," he lied and turned to give a wiry smile to his little sister. She was a full five years younger than him, but he adored her. When his mother had announced that she was pregnant, he hadn't been sure what to think. He was used to being an only child, but his thoughts had changed the moment his parents had brought Rebecca home. She had blinked her dark brown eyes up at him and he had been wrapped around her finger ever since. "Are you better than Beethoven yet, Becks?"_

 _Rebecca rolled her large, brown eyes at him and her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. "Aw, why you always gotta pick on me, Bucky?"_

" _Because that's what big brothers do," he replied as he dropped his bag on the floor. He helped her into her blue winter coat, making sure each golden button was clasped securely. He fussed at her to put her gloves on while he slung his bag over his shoulder and picked up his sister's much smaller turned back to address her music teacher with a charming smile. "Thank you Miss Elizabeth. I'll have her here tomorrow on time."_

" _I am sure you will, James. Send your parents my best," she replied as the siblings stepped back out into the biting cold._

 _He grabbed Rebecca's hand and together they crossed the street. As they walked home, he asked her about her day and listened as she complained about the difficulty of the piece she was learning. Bucky offered his encouragement without making a single joke. She had always supported his boxing lessons. Even though she hated the idea that he would willingly put himself in situations where he could hurt, she was always by his side anytime he had come home with a bruised and swollen face after a fight._

 _The least he could was inspire her to continue her lessons. She was talented and, luckily, their parents were in a position to afford the encouragement her ability. If she continued practicing there was no telling what the world would hold for her. He liked the idea that she may be able to do more than most girls in their neighborhood. He was proud of her, proud to walk down the street with her hand in his, when most boys his age would have scoffed at the idea._

 _They were just a block away from their apartment when they heard a noise coming from the alley across the street. The familiar sounds of a fight caused him to slow and he tensed at his sister's side as her voice trailed off. Their neighborhood was relatively safe, but fights still broke out. His grip on her hand tightened as they continued down the sidewalk. He kept his head forward, refusing to let his curiosity get the best of him. Whatever was happening wasn't his problem and he had learned to keep out of things that didn't concern him._

 _But Rebecca hadn't learned that lesson yet. Her head tilted in interest as they walked passed. They had almost cleared the area when she gasped and yanked on his hand. Bucky glanced down at her, ready to tell her to cut it out, but she spoke before he could._

" _Bucky, look," she whispered urgently. Her tiny hand tugged more insistently on his as she stopped on the sidewalk. "They are hurting him."_

" _Guys like them are always hurting someone, Becks," he replied without glancing in their direction._

 _He needed to get her home. That was the task his parents had given him. He needed to get his sister to and from piano lessons without incident. Nothing more. Nothing less._

 _Glancing up the street, he could see the steps that lead to their apartment. He was less than twenty feet from completing his task and he was not going to be sidetracked because of his little sister's bleeding heart. He took another step, dragging her along with him and away from the danger. But she pulled against his hold and her tiny hand slipped out of his._

" _No, look! He's so small and they are so big," she cried out in protest, as Bucky whirled around instantly on alert. Their bags slide from his shoulder with a thud at the quick movement. His lips opened to yell at her, but he couldn't find the words as he took in her face. Her eyes had gone round, her gloved hands covering her mouth. She had never seen a fight, Bucky had made sure of that, but she knew what the aftermath of a fight looked like. Jaw tightening, Bucky turned toward the direction of the fight. "They are gonna hurt him, Bucky. You have to do something. Please! You have to!"_

 _No, he didn't. He only needed to get her home. But as his eyes took in the scene, he felt something in his chest tighten. There were two kids, roughly his age and about his size, kicking and clawing at a smaller figure. A figure that was curled on the ground; defenseless. Disgust burned in his stomach. He hated bullies._

 _But with his sister next to him, there wasn't much he could do. He never had any plans of fighting in front of her and he wouldn't put her in unnecessary danger. There was only one option left and he could only hope she would listen to him._

" _Becky, go home," he said suddenly, studying the alley intently. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her look up at him. She started to protest and he turned to look at her sternly. "Rebecca, if you want me to help, go home. Now!"_

 _With a giant smile and a nod, she was running toward their apartment. Bucky watched her go, made sure she reached the stairs, before he turned his gaze back to the alley. He took a deep breath and stepped off the curb, leaving their bags behind him. He could hear them as he got closer. Voices demanded money from the kid on the ground and Bucky felt his anger rising._

 _They were hurting some kid over a few dollars?_

 _He reached the alley quickly and grabbed the first kid he could reach, yanking him backwards. Not expecting the interference, the kid hit the ground hard. Bucky took advantage and lunged for the other kid, sending him stumbling into the wall. He positioned himself between the two bullies and the kid still curled on the ground, readying himself for a fight. The one closest to him took a swing at him, but it was slow and sloppy. He dodged the punch easily and landed one of his own._

 _The second kid rushed him, but Bucky had anticipated the move, and sent the kid spiraling into the ground. The first helped the second up and they backed away, as his eyes followed their movements. Seconds later, they took off running. Shaking his head in disgust, Bucky turned toward the small, blonde haired boy on the ground._

" _Hey. You okay?"_

 _Slowly, the kid dropped his arms away from his head. Blue eyes stared up at him cautiously and Bucky moved to hold out a hand. The kid flinched away from him and Bucky froze with his hand in the air. Something in his chest tightened at the frightened kid. He was small and thin, but there was a fire burning in his blue eyes. A fire Bucky saw in his sister gaze at times. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment, before the kid relaxed and slid his hand into his. Gently, Bucky helped the kid to his feet before he let go._

" _Thanks," the kid said quietly, brushing his hand down his grey coat. The coat seemed to swallow him alive and Bucky bit down on his cheek to stop the chuckle that was building in his stomach. Scratches and dirt lined his face, but his blue eyes studied Bucky for a long moment, before he tried to make himself seem taller. "I could have taken them."_

 _Bucky couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Yeah, sure you could, pal."_

 _The kid reminded him of their neighbor's cat. He had been the runt of the litter, a tiny bobcat that never grew into his attitude. He was all claws and brashness, but still the size of a kitten. The stubbornness that burned in the kid's eyes made Bucky smile, especially since it looked like the wind could knock the kid down. Suddenly the kid was bent over, coughing violently. Bucky was at his side instantly, arms wrapping around the blonde boy, helping to keep him up._

 _A rattling noise sounded in his chest and his coughs turned to wheezing. When his eyes met Bucky's again there was panic in them. Bucky's own heart began to race. He had no idea what was happening or how to help. The kid pointed toward a small bag on the ground and Bucky grabbed it, holding it out to the kid. With shaky hands, he pulled out a glass tube that was connected to a giant rubber ball and a bottle of medication. Bucky watched as the kid injected himself with the medication using the weird contraption and felt relief as the wheezing slowed._

" _Sorry, I have asthma," the kid said when he could breathe again. Bucky nodded his head, not really understanding everything that had just happened, but felt like it was the right thing to do. "I'm Steve by the way."_

" _Bucky."_

" _Oh I know. The whole school knows who you are," Steve said with a slight smile before he glanced away. Bucky felt his eyebrows raise in surprise. The kid – Steve, he corrected in his mind – went to his school? Suddenly it clicked into place. Steve's last name had to be Rogers, the one everyone mocked in the halls. Bucky had never really paid much attention to the rumors, because he hadn't cared to take part in gossiping about some sick kid. "Thanks again. You didn't have to step in."_

 _There was something about Steve that spoke to him. Something about how fragile he looked, how sick he had just been, and yet, that fire still burned just as brightly. Maybe even more._

" _Where do you live?" Bucky asked as they stood on the sidewalk. Surprised, Steve turned to him and pointed at an apartment building in the opposite direction of his own. "Alright, let me grab my bags and I'll walk you home."_

 _Quickly, he crossed the street, swung his sister's bag and his own over his shoulder once more, and hurried back to Steve's side. They walked in silence for a few minutes before Steve turned to him. "I can make it home from here. You don't have to babysit me."_

 _The disgust in his tone was unmistakable and Bucky shook his head at the accusation. "I am trying to be nice. You don't have to be such a little punk about it."_

 _Next to him Steve stiffened and frowned up at him. "Yeah, well you don't have to be a jerk."_

 _Steve's blue eyes widened in horror as the words left his lips. The conviction that had laced his words was gone instantly and Bucky couldn't help but laugh at the look. Warmth was flooding his system, starving off the cold bite in the air. He liked Steve. The kid had heart. Without thinking, Bucky swung his free arm over Steve's shoulder while he continued to chuckle._

" _Aw, but Stevie, I am a jerk. You better get used to it."_

 _Missing a step at his words, Steve stumbled at his side. He recovered and then turned to stare up at Bucky for a long moment. Slowly a genuine smile stretched across his face and Bucky felt his lips moving to match._

* * *

The sound of his boots echoed in the hallway of the destitute apartment building. For months he had been living here, hiding from the outside world while trying to regain parts of his life. The neighborhood and the building had once held the promise of progress and improvement for the city. But the lack of funds, combined with the lack of care for the people in the area, had left the building in disarray. Most had abandoned the neighborhood, moving into other areas in search of better living conditions and opportunities. It was the way he liked it.

There was no one around to ask him questions. No one to keep up at night when the nightmares overwhelmed him.

He had come to Romania more by accident than by design. After the events of DC, after he had failed his mission and abandoned Hydra, after the man on the bridge had a name in his mind, he had been on the run. Running just as much from Hydra as from Steve and the memories he brought with him. He knew that one day Steve would come for him. One day he would have to confess his sins and be declared unworthy, but he wasn't ready yet.

Not when he had forgotten more than he knew. Not when he was terrified of things he remembered and even more of the things he did not. He needed the time only distance could provide. So he had saved Steve from the river and stayed just long enough to make sure he was still breathing.

Then he ran.

The past 70 years were a blur of inconsistencies. Most of the older memories were shattered far beyond repair. The parts he could piece together, of a family who had once loved him and a friendship that transcended time, alarmed him. The Soldier had no use for these kinds of memories, but the man underneath did. To reconcile the two lives swirling in his head seemed unimaginable.

There was no other option but to run, except he didn't have anywhere to go.

He had known that fact for years. It had been the leash that kept him tied down to his handlers. Where would he go, where could he go? He had no mission to guide his movements. No plans. Instead he had relied on his gut instinct, moving further into the city and away from the man who had changed everything. Steve's injuries would give him just enough to put some distance between them.

He had stayed hidden until the sun went down. He wouldn't take any chances. In the aftermath of the day, he had been sure no one was looking for him. The cops would have been too busy with the cleanup efforts. Hydra would have been plotting new schemes or hiding old ones from view. Many had probably headed underground to wait out the oncoming storm. He'd make sure he was long gone before anyone realized he had never checked in.

He had stolen clothes as he moved further into the city and broke into a few stores, needing medical supplies. After a few hours of searching, he found a quiet place to rest and look after his injuries. His shoulder had been dislocated and there were cuts riddling across his body. He hadn't uttered a sound as his metal arm had forced his shoulder back into place. Wrapping the cuts had been harder, trickier. Thankfully his body would heal fast so he wouldn't be down for long. As he had finished wrapping the last cut and changing into the new clothes, the sun had begun to rise and he knew he needed to move once more.

He hadn't made much process, had only reached the heart of the city, when he froze on the sidewalk. Attached to light poles, banners blew in the wind. In the early morning like they had been illuminated, as if they were a beacon in the brightening sky. An illustrated image of Captain America had greeted him. The words telling him there was an exhibit at a nearby museum.

 _Captain America: The Living Legend and Symbol of Courage._

Without thinking about the consequences, he had made his way toward the museum. The damage the city had endured had been isolated to the western side. The museum wasn't even opened when he arrived, so he had made his way to a back door and snuck inside. When he found the room he had been looking for, he had paused outside for a long moment. He had been afraid to move. Afraid to find out that the scattered images in his head were wrong, that he wasn't who he thought he was. Or even worse, that they were right and it would destroy the man he had once been. It wasn't until the lights had flickered on and sound had trickled out of the room that he had moved forward.

He had moved toward his past and his future in one tiny step.

He had read every line printed, stared for long minutes at every picture. He had read the captions and had memorized faces with the names that accompanied them. No word or image was ignored as he moved around the perimeter. People began to trickle around him, but he hadn't care. Except when he had watched them laugh as they stood next to changes images of Steve. One image short, scrawny, and sick, the other large, bulky, and healthy.

The disappearing, flickering images had matched the conflicting pictures in his head.

There had been a projection room that showed a repeating video of a woman telling a story about how Steve had once saved an entire battalion. He had sat and watched it until he memorized the words, listening to the woman who had obviously once cared for the hero. But it wasn't until he left this room, that it had felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Only a few feet from him stood a giant glass memorial that had sparkled under the light. Etched into the carving was a giant portrait of a man.

A man he had once known. _James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes._

The world around him had dimmed until there was nothing but the memorial. The sounds of the room, the other displays, all had paled in comparison. His heart had pounded in his chest and he had been unable to move. It had felt like a dream. Like at any moment he would wake up to discover he had never left his handlers. His body had felt light, as if he could be pushed over by a feather. But there was also an undercurrent of heaviness, as if his past rooted him to the floor.

He had stared at the image, committing every single detail to memory. Dread had filled his stomach the longer he stared and he had felt his arm shift under his jacket. The image sketched on the glass surface had been too much like the glass coffin he had been confined in for decades. Why did everyone seem to choose to keep him caged in glass? Was he that spun delicate, even before?

He had felt detached as he his eyes drifted to a television underneath the memorial, displaying moving images of the two men. Two men consulting with members of the Howling Commandos, laughing together, planning together, fighting together. The two were never far from each other. The dark haired man was important to the blonde. So important, the hero had refused to fight the now villainous man seventy years later. Even as the man had tried to kill his former friend in protest of the words spilling from his lips, the man had refused to lift a finger in his defense.

He had only fought to save the world. Once that fight was over, once the world was saved, the hero had dropped his shield. He had faith that his former friend could find his way out of the darkness. His heart had quivered in his chest and the room had faded, until he was no longer in a museum.

Instead, he had been in a tiny apartment. It was neat and tidy, but worn and fraying. The small, sickly Steve was lying across a couch as the dark haired man wandered into the room. The man had taken one look at the sleeping form of his friend and had smiled. Startled awake as a heavy newspaper dropped on the man's chest, Steve bolted up and had begun to complain. The dark haired man chastised him for sleeping all day, but there hadn't been in real weight in his words. Just general affection and an easiness that contradicted everything the Soldier understood about the world.

He had blinked and he was back in the museum. People had moved about as if he was invisible. But remnants of that world had followed him back. Old, distinct voices he once knew began to whisper in his ear. They had been small at first, before growing into an insistent roar.

 _Thanks Buck, but I can get by on my own._

 _Aww, Bucky, why do you always get the bigger piece of pie?_

 _That was a nice thing you just did. Your father would be proud._

 _Be careful, son. War will forever change you._

 _You ready to follow Captain American into the jaws of death?_

Words and images had collided in his mind, sending him spiraling in the middle of the room. He had known then that the decision to run had been the right one. Steve would follow him and expected to find _his Bucky._ But _he_ wasn't Bucky, not anymore. The man who had a war memorial dedicated to him, the man worthy of standing next to Captain America – that wasn't him. He was stained in blood and death.

So he had run east, as far east as he could. When he hit the coast, he had snuck onto a shipping container that had headed for Europe. In France, he had run into some trouble. Old Hydra operatives who hadn't known the Winter Soldier was not only operational, but not as friendly as he had once been to their cause. Every nerve in his body had braced for the inevitable, the only outcome that the Soldier understood. But he didn't kill them.

He had been changed that day in the museum. Something had been triggered in his mind and the desire to kill had been diluted within his brain. There was too much blood on his hands. Steve's _Bucky_ hadn't been clean. Thanks to the museum he knew that now. Bucky did the work that Steve couldn't. The things Captain America couldn't do, he had done. To keep his friend's hands clean, his image impeccable.

Killing, morally grey areas, he had always operated in them. Hydra hadn't been responsible for that. The US military had been. Steve had been. _He_ had been.

But what did all that make him now – he wasn't Bucky, but he wasn't just the Winter Soldier – he wasn't sure. More importantly, he wasn't even sure who he wanted to be. Whether he wanted to seek revenge for all that had been taken from him or redemption for the man he had been. Either way he knew this time he wouldn't be able to keep Steve's image clean. Associating himself with the Winter Soldier, trying to _help_ him, was going to tarnish Captain America. Forever.

He hadn't killed the Hydra operatives that day, but he sent a bloody message back with them. He was not going back; not willingly. He was no longer their Winter Soldier. But what he was, who he was, haunted him as he raced out of France and further into Europe. Trying to outrun the carnage of his past, but feeling it following him like a shadow he could never cast off.

In the months that followed, he covered great distances. He kept his head down and never stayed in any one place for too long. He stole food, money, clothes, whatever he needed, as he moved further away. Further from his past, from his ghosts, and always away from Steve. When he had remembered an old Hydra safe house in Romania, he had waged an internal struggle.

Anything associated with Hydra was bad, he had reasoned. There could be people waiting for him, but something in his gut had told him it was safe. The memory of the place had been from ages ago, from a time long before most of the current agents. It hadn't been as vivid in his mind as others that probably teemed with Hydra agents trying to escape the round ups. The newspapers had been talking about the Black Widow and how she had released their secrets onto the internet. Too many agents would be looking for a way back to the shadows.

The safe house in Budapest floated in his mind for days, until he finally decided to take a chance. He trusted his gut and made his way to the decaying building. He had stood outside the building for days, watching as people came and went. Looking for anything, anyone that seemed out of place, but he had found nothing. Cautiously, he had ventured into the building, readying himself for a fight.

He had broken the lock on the door and had stepped in the room quickly, hoping to throw off anyone still lurking in the room. But the room had been empty, a thick line of dust coating the place, telling him that he had been right. The apartment had sat empty for years. The apartment was a sparsely furnished room, with a kitchen and a bathroom. Relaxing his stance, he had stepped further into the tiny apartment.

He was safe, for now.

So he had spent the next few days covering the windows with newspapers and repairing the door, re-enforcing it as a precaution. They may not know where he was now, but someone would show up one day. He needed to be ready. There was no alternative in his mind. Someone would come looking for him. It was just a matter of time.

For days he had hid out in his tiny apartment, feeling safe for the first time since he could remember. The apartment had running water and he didn't need to eat much. He spent his early days scribbling everything he had learned in a journal he had swiped on a train. Everything he had learned about James Buchanan Barnes. Everything he had learned about Steven Grant Rogers. Everything he thought he remembered that hadn't lined the walls of that museum in DC.

He needed to make sure that he remembered these things. They were important, so important that he could no longer trust his mind. It had to be on paper so that in his moments of weakness, when the world around him blurred into conflicting realities between the soldier and the man, he could be reminded that he had been someone once. His soul splintered often during those first few months and he needed to know that Steve Rogers, Captain America, was real. James Buchanan Barnes had existed, had maybe even been a good person once.

 _He_ wasn't a good person. He had slaughtered without pause, without thought. The Soldier had been given an order and he had carried it out by any means necessary. _But he wasn't the Soldier anymore_ , a voice kept reminding him. He didn't have to be anything he no longer wished to be. He didn't have to kill and there was no one around to give him an order. But who was _he_?

James Barnes had been a good man. He had gone to war for his country and had fought alongside a group of heroic men. He had battled alongside his best friend and had kept him safe. He once had a family who had loved him. The Winter Soldier, however, had been a ghost. A lethal weapon, who could only leave a path of destruction in his wake. The only people who worried about him were his handlers. And their only concern was whether he was operational or not.

He had been given a new start, a chance to pick a new identity out of the ruins of his past. There would be no endless void to protect him from his decisions now. No machines to wipe his mind clean of his mistakes. So who was he? Who did he want to be?

James Barnes was a shattered memory, but maybe, as time passed, he could reclaim Bucky.

When he had finally emerged from the apartment to find supplies, he hadn't spoken a word to any of the cashiers as he handed over his dwindling money. Money had become a problem he needed to solve soon. He had been halfway home when a noise grabbed his attention. Instantly he had positioned himself in the shadows and had watched as an older man moved swiftly across the street. The man's head had continuous swiveled around, looking for some unseen foe in the dark.

Shadows had moved around the man. It had been too dark for the old man to make them out, but Bucky had seen them clearly. His mind had screamed at him to leave it. _Walk away_. _This wasn't his problem and he didn't need to make it his problem. Attracting attention was not how one stayed hidden._

But his heart had roared in defiance. There had been something about the situation that struck him. Something about a man in an alleyway, getting taken advantage of by larger opponents, that had made him take a step to closer. And then another. The shadows had emerged and had surrounded the old man, cutting off his escape.

They had barked orders, demanding his wallet and other valuables. Just thugs and not Hydra. Something in his mind had whirled at their words as he sprang into action. Making sure to keep his strength in check so he didn't seriously hurt any of them, he had struck fast and quick. Within seconds the would-be attackers had took off running, scampering back into the darkness from which they came.

He had turned to make sure the old man was alright before he walked back to his side of the street and picked up his groceries. An image was scratching at the back of his mind, but he hadn't been able to make it out. He couldn't seem to grasp it.

"Wait," the old man's voice had shook as he spoke, pulling him from his mind. Bucky had paused, his back to the old man. "Please, how can I repay you?"

Without a word, he had started to walk again. Walking away from the old man and the shattered pieces of memories that accompanied, but the man had been persistent. He had followed Bucky down the street, rambling on about how he had to repay him. Rage had built within him. Didn't the man understand he was trying to protect him? Didn't he see that he was in more danger next to him than the would-be thugs?

Turning quickly and startling the old man, he had leered over him. His eyes had glittered dangerously in the dim lighting and his voice had turned into a hiss. "Get away from me."

The old man's eyes had widened and he had taken a cautious step backward. He had started to make the smart decision to walk away, when he had paused and looked back at Bucky. "I own the construction company down the road. If you need anything, please let me know."

He had no intention of seeing the man again. But weeks later he had found himself standing outside the construction company that the man owned, his jaw tightening and his arm whirling underneath his jacket and gloves. He needed money. Stealing the items he needed had begun to attract too much attention. He had never needed money on a mission and had been trained in the art of assassination and war making. He was far from a thief.

The old man, Andrei, had only been too happy to give him a job. He hadn't questioned Bucky's demand for cash and daily. As long as the work got done, Andrei said nothing and handed him his cash at the end of his shifts. If he missed a day or three – days when the nightmares had their claws too tightly woven within him to function – Andrei had said nothing. Andrei tried to give him individual tasks and kept the others from speaking with him unless it was necessary.

It was a new routine, and routines, he discovered, were good. They helped to steady his mind and gave him something to do throughout the day. It felt good to do something with his hands again, something other than training or killing. It was honest work and he found he enjoyed it. He was helping to build houses, using his hands to physically help rebuild neighborhoods while his brain tried to rebuild his memories and scattered mind.

The only person Bucky had any real interactions with was an elderly woman names Elena. She owned a stand in the open air market close to his apartment. The stand had been passed down to her from her father, who had inherited it from his father. It hadn't been his decision to start speaking with her. She seemed to take an interest in her regular customers and he had quickly become a regular.

So she had started asking him questions. Questions he had no intention of answering. When he deflected the questions back at her, she happily gave her life story to him. Her husband, Abel, was kind and successful. He owned a little furniture store down the road from the stand. It was good money, more money than the stand brought in, but Elena had been working there since she had been a little girl. Abel would not ask her to give it up, even as their furniture business took off and her help would have been better spent there.

But her curiosity about him worried him. There was a slight fear that she was a spy, or had ties to an organization whose radar he was avoiding. So he had begun to gather his own intel on her and quickly discovered that she was exactly who she said she was. Everyone loved her. The couple had never had kids, so she treated everyone who visited her stand like her own. She worried over them, gave them advice, and sometimes gave out food when they were short on cash. When there was a string of robberies taking place around the market, Elena's stand was seemly untouched. Like there was an unspoken rule that she was to be left alone.

Each story was consistent, speaking to her generosity and kindness.

Over the months he found himself making small talk with her and actually enjoying it. It was a monumental shift for him that had come with unseen consequences. The moment he had started to speak to her was the moment she began to fret over him like she did the others. She wanted him to get a girlfriend, had even tried to set him up with some of the girls in the area. She kept telling him that his youth was fleeting and if he didn't find a nice young woman to settle down with soon, it would be too late. She gave him lectures on the need to smile more, how a nice woman would make him appreciate life, and he would never find her if he didn't smile.

Elena had also been present the day Bucky saw Steve Rogers again. It had only been a newspaper picture, but it had set a panic within Bucky. The photo had been taken in Sokovia, close enough to Romania that Bucky felt the urge to run all over again. Steve was catching up, which meant it was only a matter of time now. Bucky still wasn't sure he was ready. He hadn't been able to sort all the little pieces of his mind.

He had been staring at the photo in the newspaper, reading the story quickly as his mind had warred. While the need to run raced through him, it was nothing compared to the need to run _toward_ Steve. Because Steve had surrounded himself with a new group, the Avengers. A group filled with extraordinary people with astonishing powers.

The newspaper had told the tale of the Avengers latest mission. They had taken on a series of robots and had helped save the world once again. Disgusted, Bucky's hands had crumpled the newspaper. What was it about Steve that he was always trying to put himself in dangerous situations? Why did he feel the need to constantly try and save the world? How did he always inspire others to follow his lead?

And why did these questions seem so familiar?

Smoothing out the paper once more, he had continued to read as the article gave profiles of each member. The group consisted of an alien, mutants, former government agents, an android, a Hulk, military men, and Tony Stark. It was important for him to understand the people Steve had partnered with in this new world. The Avengers may be earth's mightiest heroes, according to the article, but that didn't mean they could be trusted. Especially with the only person Bucky had left.

His face must have shown his concern as Elena approached him. She had glanced at the paper and smiled fondly. "Ah, the Avengers. Everyone is obsessed with them."

Bucky had glanced up from the paper. "You ever see them? In person?"

"Course not," Elena had dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Do I look like the kind to seek out danger?"

He had bit the inside of his cheek to stop the laugh that bubbled within him. If she had only known how close she was standing to the literal definition of danger, she would probably have died of a heart attack. Bucky had turned his attention back to the article and stared at Steve. There were always two images in his head when he looked at the man. One small and one big. One sick and one healthy. The images morphed back and forth in his memory, making it hard to reconcile the two.

"Captain America's your favorite then? Mine is the Iron Man," Elena provided as she offered him a plum. Sticking his hand, in his pocket he had pulled out money, but she swiped it away. "No, no. This is free, for my favorite customer."

"You tell everyone they're your favorite," he had said with a roll of his eyes but took the plum anyway.

He'd just leave the money on the counter when she wasn't looking. There was never any use in arguing with her about money.

"Yes, but you're my true favorite," she had replied with a wink. Holding her hand out, she had motioned for the newspaper and he had passed it to her. She had glanced at it before shaking her head. "Too many people don't think about what they mean. How fast the world is changing now."

"How much do you know about them?"

He needed to know more about the people Steve was choosing to spend his time with. Were they like their group, The Howling Commandos? Or were they more like Hydra, a wolf in sheep clothes?

"I watched them save New York City on the television and Sokovia. What do you want to know?" She had asked with a quirk of her brow. Bucky had shrugged. He hadn't been sure where to begin that day. He needed to know everything. He wanted to make sure Steve was safe. Instead he had settled for asking why she chose Iron Man, while he took a bite of his plum. "Because he's Tony Stark. Rich and charismatic man like him, how could anyone not like him?"

Bucky snorted lightly. Pretty easily if what he had read was true. But the name made him pause. _Stark._ Something about the name made his stomach flutter. Before he could examine it further, Elena had continued speaking and his attention focused back on her.

"But my niece loves the Black Widow. Powerful women are good for little girls to see. So many boys run around with their hammers and shields. It's nice to see the women represented," she had stated as she studied the pictures. Turned the newspaper back toward him, she had gestured toward the picture of three women. "Except for the other two. They are mutants."

Elena's voice had dropped to a whisper. The way she had uttered the word – _mutants –_ had made Bucky study her more intently. Until that day, he had never once had he heard her say a bad thing about anyone. The scrunch that had appeared on her face had betrayed the disgust she tried to hide. She did not like the two women, or the male sibling of the longed hair one. That had been the exact kind of intel he was needing.

"What's wrong with them?"

Her dark eyes had glanced up at him, full of fear. "You ever meet one? They can do things, things you can even think of. Some say they can get in your head, make you see things that aren't there. They can't be trusted."

"These three?" he had asked to clarify.

He trusted Elena. If she said they couldn't be trusted, than he wouldn't trust them. But he had been surprised by her answer.

"Not just them, all of them. You must never trust them," she had warned him. "They wish to see all of us dead and gone. We cannot let them."

He had walked away from her that day even more confused. Steve wouldn't have surrounded himself with people he couldn't trust. The three mutants wouldn't have joined the Avengers and actively sought to help save the world if they wished to see everyone dead. All he had really known that day was he needed to gather as much information as he could on the Avengers, especially the three mutants.

But that had been months ago and as he walked up the steps to his apartment, a bag of plums in his hand, he sighed. He hadn't slept in days, not after his last nightmare had caused his mind to rip apart anew. He could feel the weight of it dragging him down. His movements were growing sluggish, his body was on overdrive. His reflexes were as sharp as ever, maybe even more with the added paranoia that came with his sleep deprivation, but his body was physically tired. Moving to unlock his door, he paused with a frown.

Something wasn't right. He could feel it.

His door was closed, just how he left it, but he _knew_. Someone was inside. The Winter Soldier shoved forward in his mind, taking over command of his body. The bag of plums was fisted tighter, making sure they couldn't make a sound as he slipped quietly into his apartment. The lights were off, casting shadows around the room through the dying sunlight. But just as he suspected, there was a figure hunched over toward his refrigerator.

The man had his back to Bucky. He was glancing through a journal. No, not _a_ journal; _his journal_. Anger flashed through him and stepped closer, muffling his steps. He was going to grab the man from behind, had lifted his arm to do just that, when his mind began to scream at him. He was missing something. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, forcing the Winter Soldier to retreat just enough, he stared at the man until it clicked. Straightening in alarm, Bucky closed his eyes for a few seconds and tried to steady his breathing.

Captain America had finally come for him.

Steve must have felt his presence because he paused his snooping and spun around. Honest blue eyes met his and Bucky felt his mouth go dry. Steve's eyes darted around his figure, taking him in and Bucky resisted the urge to shift under the scrutiny. He was filthy from his hours of Andrei's construction site. He had been hammering and sawing lumber for hours and this wasn't the kind of impression he had wanted to make.

Instead of showing his nervousness, Bucky chose to study Steve in return. A blue baseball cap casted a looming shadow over his chiseled face, but Bucky could see the lines of shock. Old habits die hard, and he frowned when he realized he was checking Steve over for weapons. But there were no weapons to be found. Even the trusted shield was missing. He had come alone; though Bucky was sure there were others nearby. _Just in case_. But it meant something that Steve had appeared without protection.

It was stupid, foolish and reckless. But it was the Steve from his memory and that thought calmed the Winter Soldier.

"Do you know me?" Steve asked, breaking the silence first.

There was hesitation in his voice, a caution that Bucky was sure felt foreign to the man. But there was also an underlying lithe of hope that made Bucky wary. Steve was here, real and in the flesh. And Bucky knew he was not ready for this.

"You're Steve," Bucky answered slowly. He could feel his control slipping. Steve wasn't supposed to be here, not yet. It was too soon. Bucky had planned to be in control of this exchange when it happened. He needed to be in control for this conversation to remain friendly, to keep the Winter Soldier from making an unexpected appearance. "I read about you in a museum."

Steve studied him again for a long moment. "You're lying."

Bucky's eyes flashed in challenge. How dare he come into his apartment and accuse him of lying! He wasn't even supposed to be here. He was supposed to be off saving the world with the Avengers, not standing in his apartment, worrying about the villain in his story. What did he even want from him?

"The truth," Steve answered and Bucky's eyes widened in horror. Without realizing it, he had spoken out loud. His shoulders slumped and he moved toward his tiny table, dropping his bag of fruit onto it before sliding into the chair. He couldn't even look at the man next to him. Dread was lining his stomach. He was going to be a disappointment. Steve had come looking for _his_ Bucky and he wasn't going to find him. Steve hesitated for a second before he moved closer. "Buck?"

"You shouldn't be here. I'm not ready for this."

"Not ready for what?" Steve questioned quietly, moving to lean against the counter across from Bucky. There was only one chair in his apartment and he was occupying it. He never had any plans of inviting guests over. Bucky buried his head in his hands and sighed deeply. "I just want to help."

"No, you're here to ask me to come with you," Bucky said into his hands. The silence that followed confirmed his suspicions. Fear shot down his spine. "I don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I'm ready."

A second later a deep sigh echoed into the room. The sound made Bucky glance up at his friend who was staring at the ceiling and shaking his head. He was muttering to himself, something about not listening to someone named Liv. Bucky frowned at him and Steve gave him a sheepish look when he noticed.

"I get this may be a bit overwhelming for you, I do get that. But I really just want to help. It's not safe for you to be out here alone. We've been taking on Hydra bases for months now, but they are still operating," Steve spoke seriously. His typical bright eyes were dull with worry. Lines marked his forehead signaling his anxiety. "I get that you're not ready to deal with everything just yet. Or with me, and I can respect that. I just want you to make sure you're safe. And some crummy, rundown apartment without back up just doesn't seem like your best option."

With a gesture of his hands, Steve motioned to the apartment around them. Bucky glanced around his tiny apartment with new eyes. To him it had never been about comfort or cleanliness. The apartment had been what he needed, a shelter to ride out this chapter of his life. But one glance around and he could see the place from Steve's perspective. If he had found Steve hiding out in a dump like this with a few screws still loose, he'd definitely hull his ass out of there too.

Bucky met Steve's stare once more, but said nothing. Taking a deep breath, Steve shook his head in defeat. His eyes stared down at the floor and Bucky felt his heart clench at the look. He was disappointing Steve, just like he knew he would. Before he could respond, to try and make the situation right, Steve straightened with a look of determination. He had decided to try again.

"Look, we can put the cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun. All you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash," Steve said quietly.

A tiny, ghost of a smile worked its way across his face as he finished. Bucky frowned. The words were familiar, but he couldn't place them. Where had he heard them? The look on Steve's face showed he was waiting for something. Had Steve said the words before? That didn't seem right.

Suddenly a fuzzy image of small Steve appeared before his eyes. He could hear his former self speaking, offering condolences. The familiar words fell from his mouth as he tried to convince the smaller Steve to come back with him. The image disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared and Bucky was now staring at Steve in shock.

Something in his gut twisted. He didn't understand the context of that memory or why was he offering his condolences. But he did understand the message behind the words. He had wanted to take care of Steve, make sure he was safe. Steve repeating those words now, decades later, was his way of trying to repeat what Bucky had once done for him. He wanted to take care of Bucky. Steve wanted to keep him safe.

"I can get by on my own," Bucky said softly, repeating the words he now remembered Steve had once said to him.

A grin flashed across Steve's face, before it disappeared as Steve tried in vain to control his response. "The thing is you don't have to."

The rest of the words were left unspoken, because Steve had said them before. They were the first thing Bucky had written down in his journal. The words that had broken through the crumbled walls of programming that Hydra had put in place. Words that cemented a bond forged in the innocence of youth and cemented in the fires of war.

 _I'm with you till the end of the line._

Bucky studied Steve for a long time. The hope that shone in his former friend's eyes caused his arm to whirl. He knew his answer in that moment. Because between all his running and worrying, there had only ever been one answer to give.

He wasn't ready and this was a giant mistake, but he knew he had to go. He knew he would go. He would go because Steve needed him too. And he needed to go, for there were answers to questions that only Steve would have.

"Alright," he agreed quietly. "When do we leave?"

"Sam is waiting outside. We can leave when you're ready," Steve answered, a giant grin sliding across his face.

Bucky took a glance around his empty apartment and sighed. Nodding his head, he stood up and wandered into his kitchen. His heart raced with the knowledge that he was really doing this. He was going to leave his apartment to go wherever Steve told him to go. Raising his metal arm into the air, he slammed down onto a wooden beam, sending pieces of it flying. Steve tensed but made no attempt to stop him. Pushing broken pieces of wood out of the way, Bucky grabbed the backpack he had hidden under the floor. It was full of money and maps, fake identification papers and other journals. Grabbing the journal Steve had been looking at when he walked in, he stopped to look around his apartment once more.

This apartment had kept him safe for over a year. It had allowed him time to begin the process of healing. Trading that security for whatever lay ahead frightened him. But staring at Steve, he knew he was making the right decision. With a nod of his head and a deep breath, he followed Steve out the door. Bucky's hand cradled the door handle for a long moment before shutting the door on yet another chapter of his life, hoping that Steve would catch him when he fell this time.

 **AN: All grammatical errors and misspellings are the result of a lack of coffee.**


End file.
